To Everything There Is a Season
by Inkblot9
Summary: A winter's day brings reflection from Tintin and warmth from those close to him.


"Ten thousand thundering typhoons," Captain Haddock grumbled as another gust of frigid wind roared past him, his attempts at successfully lighting a pipe dashed in one swift, blustery motion. He drew his coat in closer against his chest with one hand and pinned his cap down to his head with the other, to prevent arguably his most valuable possession from escaping with the breeze. Once the shock subsided, he cautiously readjusted his hat and stuffed his hands back into his pockets, grimacing. "Maybe this was a bad idea after all," he muttered.

"Not at all, Captain," came Tintin's more reassuring voice from beside him, and Snowy, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs, yapped at his feet in apparent agreement. "We needed to get out of the house, at least for a while," he went on, and his partner gave him a begrudging nod of acknowledgement.

It was true, Tintin thought. After the altogether-too-boisterous celebrations they had had at and around Marlinspike Hall—for Christmas, New Year's and his own birthday, all in rapid succession—the winter had grown sleepy, long and cold. Even his and the Captain's roughish attempt at a Saint Valentine's had eventually dissolved into little more than a tipsy mockery of said holiday, and thus had done little to ease the advancing tension. Comfortable as their home was, they had long been men of adventure. Sitting still for much longer was sure to drive the both of them raving mad, despite any and all of Haddock's typical arguments to the contrary.

That being said, they had not expected it to storm, _again__._ The snow had begun shortly after they arrived at a quiet café, continued as they shared a brisk lunch, and only increased as they strolled—_trudged_, rather—back through the streets of Brussels.

The snow _was_ rather pretty, though, Tintin noted, even as he narrowed his eyes against the incoming flakes, his hair, coat, and scarf whipping in the wind. It was not something he had had many opportunities to appreciate, as he had spent many a Belgian winter halfway across the globe, preoccupied with ambition and danger in tropical jungles and desert wastelands. His seventeen-year-old self would surely scoff at the concept that the mystery he was tackling these days would be something as petty as _romance_.

Much had changed since the beginning of his career. Though he still loved his work and continued to write regularly for the _Petit Vingtième_, his days of investigative foreign correspondence seemed to be behind him. To think it had been over two years since he was last held at gunpoint, when sometimes that was a near-daily occurrence. For the longest time, chasing gangsters and trekking mountains regularly had been perfectly normal, running casual errands without being chloroformed was quite the anomaly, and even the furthest of countries was closer to him than any sort of human intimacy.

What did he have now, if not the constant adventure that had once defined him? A home, a lover, a misfit bunch of friends, an eccentric sort of family that somehow suited him perfectly—all luxuries he had assumed he would never possess. He had changed indeed, grown into a man more thoughtful, more experienced, and less foolish, he hoped, than the boy he had been. Though settling into a calmer life had been nothing short of utterly unfamiliar, it had been considerably more pleasant than he expected. Finding peace was a new kind of challenge, a new sort of puzzle, and his ever-curious, ever-learning mind had embraced it as such.

_I've become the opposite of who I once was_, he mused, _yet somehow I'm still the same…It's impossible to explain, really…_

Life itself was not nearly as clear-cut as he would like it to be. It often made little sense, and was prone to twists and turns in the strangest ways and at the most inopportune times. He trusted it would all work itself out in the end, though, in the manner of a good novel, or a mystery he had yet to piece together: an _adventure_.

Tintin allowed himself a smile at the notion.

"Troglodyte! Technocrat! Pockmark! Urchin! Blistering barnacles, get back here, you little scalawag! Confounded fleet-footed freshwater pirate!"

"Eh…?" The unmistakable whirlwind of curses silenced Tintin's thoughts, returning him to tangible reality. He turned his head in the direction of the outburst. Raising a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the storm, he soon spotted the Captain a few meters away, in characteristically clumsy pursuit of a certain mischievous terrier. "Great snakes," the young man pronounced—more of a statement of acceptance than an exclamation—and then, after a short sigh and a shake of his head, he chased after them.

The slush and ice coating the sidewalk soaked through his shoes and socks as he ran, leaving his feet uncomfortably cold and damp. Choosing to wear his oldest pair of oxfords, which had been all but torn apart from many a long journey, had perhaps been a mistake on his part. The Captain had been wiser to don a newer, thicker pair of boots more appropriate for the weather.

Stimulated by the sudden increase in movement, an old, familiar rush of adrenaline rose within him. While this short dash was far from the likes of his former escapades, it was still the most excitement he had had in some time, and he knew himself well enough now to understand that his adventurous streak would never completely leave him.

A back-alley flooded with muddy snowdrifts was the eventual rendezvous between Tintin and his companions. The Captain was first to notice his approach, turning his head almost immediately at the sound of pounding footsteps and crunching ice from behind. A slight gleam lit his pale eyes at the sight of his dear friend, a suppressed smirk surfacing from beneath his beard. Panting for breath, he wiped a sheen of sweat and half-melted snowflakes from his forehead with the back of his equally-damp hand. Every hair on his face was dusted white with frost.

"I swear…" he gasped, humor and latent frustration mingling in his tone, "…that little rapscallion of yours, Tintin…one'd think he was still a wee pup for his restlessness!"

A short grin and nod was the immediate reply. Snowy had been closer to Tintin than the boy's own shadow since even before their first trip abroad. He had to be reaching the tail end of his possible lifespan, but he appeared blissfully unaware of the fact. Even now, he continued to behave in the manner of a youth in his prime, as if the laws of nature would not apply to him until he consented.

"What's he up to, anyway?" Tintin inquired after a pause. He was answered not by Haddock but by the _whoomph_ of his dog's head extending from beneath a pile of snow, the whiteness of which had previously disguised him. A prideful expression graced Snowy's eyes and muzzle, the mangled body of some small rodent dangling between his jaws. Apparently the Marlinspike Siamese was becoming a negative influence.

A few chiding words from his master and he repented, dropping his prey, bowing his head, and falling back into line beside the two men.

Tintin's slight irritability soon subsided, consumed by lightheartedness. Gently laughing at their old friend's antics, he and the Captain resumed their course for home. Evenly matched, walking side-by-side, they reverted to their state of quiet closeness. A conversation might have been interesting, and holding hands might have been nice, but still this was more than enough: the not-quite purposeful, not-quite-accidental brushing of shoulders and coats, and the reassurance that wherever one of them went, the other would always follow, no matter the circumstance.

This simple comfort seemed to override the chaos in the weather. All was as it should be, high winds and pelting ice aside—and even that fierceness was beginning to falter. Tintin wondered briefly if it was a life like this that he should have been aiming for all along, rather than somehow finding joy in risking his neck and others' several times over.

Glancing upwards to the Captain and then downwards to Snowy, he shook off the thought. His younger years had been, admittedly, bordering on inane. If nothing else, they were miles away from the more respectable pursuits of his peers. Whether or not they had been worth his trouble was anyone's guess. Yet, it was those days that had brought him into the life he had now. Without the events of years past, he would not have found any of the people or things he held dear now. That was fact, pure and simple, and being a reporter, Tintin reveled in the facts.

Now, he noticed they had reached the old train station that would take them home. He gazed upon winter in its purest form, but still found himself filling with an incredible warmth. He breathed in frost and breeze and smoke, breathed out heat and love and relief. Haddock's arm around his shoulders, Snowy's forepaws against his shoe, and, finally, his mind at rest: this was what he had long been waiting for.

_The time for upheaval was then_, he thought;_ the time for peace is now._

* * *

The trip back to Moulinsart was completely uneventful, with nary a robbery or blow to the head to be found. Tintin drowsed against the Captain's arm, Snowy on his lap. Outside the ice-tinted windows, the Brussels cityscape rushed past until it gave way to the quieter paths of the countryside. A spattering of lingering flurries powdered the glass, blurring any potential view.

An hour or so passed, the travel slower than usual thanks to the snow, but at last they reached their destination. Tintin lifted his head, blinking away his slumber as the train ground to a stop. Snowy yapped, startled by the sudden movement; he was soon silenced by the comforting touch of his master.

The youth then noticed his partner had fallen asleep as well. "Captain," he murmured, nudging him gently. "Captain, we're here."

"H'mm? Wha'?" Haddock's eyes cracked open, and he stretched, taking in his surroundings. "Ah! We're here," he announced after a moment.

Tintin smiled and took the Captain's hand in his, squeezing it gently before they rose to disembark. A few minutes' walk and they would be home at last.

* * *

Just as well nobody had been kidnapped on the way there; Marlinspike was beautiful in the snow.

The Captain stopped in his tracks just as they reached the marble staircase outside the stately old house. He looked upon his—no, rather, _their _family estate, unrelenting pride in his eyes. Without averting his gaze, he reached for Tintin and pulled him in close.

"My goodness, Captain, what's all this sudden sentiment for?" Tintin inquired, amused.

"Ah, no, it's nothing," replied Haddock, now slightly embarrassed by his actions. "It's just…it still amazes me sometimes, y'know. This…all of this, it's _ours. _And just think, soon spring will come: the sun will shine, Cuthbert's roses'll burst back into bloom, we'll take our walks through the woods again, our friends from elsewhere might come a-calling. All of that, that's _normal_ now. Barnacles, not so long ago, my idea of _normal_ was wasting away in a sloppy old ship's cabin with whatever booze I could get my grubby hands on. Crazy, isn't it?"

Haddock glanced back at the young man beside him, whose face bore that ever-present kind smile he adored. "I'm rambling, I know," he added quickly. "Pardon a silly old sea-dog, eh, darlin'? I'm talking nonsense, just as usual, you know me…"

"No, Captain," Tintin said, returning the embrace. "Not nonsense. I agree with you completely."

After all, not so long ago, _his_ idea of normal was narrowly escaping all varieties of gruesome death on a regular basis. This particular day, comparatively calm as far as days go, might have been the most excitement he had had in weeks; but he saw now that uneventful did not mean boring, that home did not equate to prison. Far, far from it.

Tintin rose onto his toes and pecked each of the Captain's rosy-red cheeks. Without letting go of the older man's hand, he then led the way up the stairs and inside, his tiny terrier bounding close behind.

* * *

The remainder of the afternoon passed at a smooth, relaxed pace. Sopping coats were shed and soaking fur was shaken out upon them. Stoutly efficient Nestor fulfilled his duties as quickly and collectedly as always: like clockwork, a fire appeared in the sitting-room and mugs of steaming tea were placed in frozen hands. His only response to the bright thank-yous he was offered was the usual stoic nod and "will there be anything else, sirs?"

Now, adequately warmed and dried, Tintin and Haddock danced across the grand old carpet together, blue sweater against blue sweater, brown shoes bumping brown shoes. Snowy, meanwhile, was content to laze on the Captain's abandoned armchair, uninterested in such displays of human affection. One could almost hear him snort aloud at such behavior from the master and his mate. Though he generally regarded his comrades as decent, as far as people went, this was one aspect of human culture the dog would never care for nor understand.

It had been Tintin who cheekily reached for the radio and then reached out his hand, and the Captain could do nothing to resist his lively beau's advances. What compelled him more than the music was their own rhythm, built up through long years of both wonder and strife: oftentimes shaky and rough, yet somehow stronger than the sea.

They stepped, they swayed, they swung across the floor. And all at once, Haddock twirled Tintin around in one surprisingly nimble movement, dipping him downwards before catching him in one comfortingly strong arm. They held still there for a moment as the last notes of music ebbed from their ears. Catching their breath, they looked upon each other, drinking in the sight of all that they were.

"Look at us, Captain," Tintin said with a chuckle as he stood up. "What have we become? The world's two boldest adventurers, reduced to nothing more than a cheap domestic cliché."

The Captain leaned in towards him, close enough for their foreheads to touch. "It's about time," he whispered back, the same humor echoing in his voice as well.

The fire kept crackling, the radio kept droning, Snowy kept snoring. The lovers eased into each other's arms, their fingers still intertwined, their laughs blending into one.

_About time_, Tintin repeated to himself. _Yes, indeed it is._


End file.
